


find me (where I am most ruined)

by lemon_verbena



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Cormoran Strike Is So In Love With Robin Ellacott, Cunnilingus, Established Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike, F/M, Hurt Cormoran Strike, Hurt/Comfort, More Comfort, Rating has changed, Robin Taking Care of Cormoran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_verbena/pseuds/lemon_verbena
Summary: “You’re the color of whey, and you hate sitting on that couch,” Robin says tartly. “I don’t think ‘fine’ is the word for you right now.”Cormoran waves a hand at her, as though to brush away her accusations.“Just stepped in a pothole, no need to call the morgue just yet,” he says, trying for levity.





	1. the fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pools_of_venetianblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/gifts).

> Written as a belated birthday gift for lindmea/pools-of-venetian-blue, who requested domestic hurt/comfort, with perhaps some smut. I am happy to provide for the birthday girl! (I did mean to write a less _literal_ hurt, but Cormoran went and pitched himself off the sidewalk, and I could but follow. I hope you don't mind! Fear not, I did manage to work in plenty of emotional hurting as well.)
> 
> This can be read as part of the green lace series if you wish, but is essentially a standalone in a universe in which Cormoran and Robin have already overcome their obstacle to work together while maintaining a healthy romantic relationship. I can do this because it is my fic, and in my universe, this is what I would like. 
> 
> I hope you like it as well. I hope to get the next chapters up soon.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
Crawl inside this body -  
find me where I am most ruined,  
love me _there._
> 
> \- Rune Lazuli
> 
>   

> 
> * * *

The day had been hard and long, but at last it is over; Cormoran is thanking his every lucky star that he has made it through a grueling day of tailing the busiest stay-at-home mother in the world, and does not notice that there is a pothole in the sidewalk. 

His prosthesis goes in with a sickening sideways motion, and he lands heavily on the ground, leg twisted awkwardly and dignity even worse. 

“Jesus fuck—” he exclaims as he goes down, to the scandalized look of an elderly woman passing him by. 

“That was a bad fall,” a young man says, coming up behind him. He’s got the weedy, slightly-underfed look of a boy who hasn’t begun to fill out properly yet. “Want a hand?”

Cormoran accepts, though his pride demands he wave the lad off; he knows better than to let pride rule him when his leg feels the way it does. The lad pulls him upright with a minimum of fuss, nothing about how big a bloke Cormoran is, no useless sympathies. 

“You good, then, mate?” the lad asks, and Cormoran pulls himself together enough to look the young man in the eye and thank him, at least.

“I’m only a couple blocks from home, but thanks for the hand,” he says, and receives the clap on the back in the good humor it’s meant. 

He really is only a few blocks from Denmark Street, which is only insult to the injury, he ruminates as he walks— well, hobbles, really— back towards the office. The way he fell means the gel pad between his stump and prosthesis has been jostled out of place, and the straps cut into his flesh now; it’ll bruise up nicely, he thinks, limping. 

After an interminable stretch of time during which his thoughts consist mainly of increasingly colorful invective— he’ll have to remember “useless fucking cockswomble,” it’s got a good rhythm to it— the familiar door is there, and Cormoran sighs with relief.

Then, of course, behind the door are the stairs. 

“You’re back at last!” Robin calls at the sound of his footsteps. Cormoran knows that Robin would be able to identify him without the sound of his pronounced limp, mainly because he’s the only other person who is regularly on this level of the building, but he’s irritated anyway. He knows the shuffle-thump of his gait is distinctive, but he doesn’t have to _like_ it. 

“Yeah,” he says, surly. “I’m back.”

“Oh,” Robin says as he comes through the door. Cormoran can see from her expression that he must look worse than he has been assuming, because she is half out of her chair already. 

“Don’t look like that,” he says, moving to the couch. “I’m fine.”

The couch makes one of its usual flatulent noises as he lands heavily on it, and he winces, both at the noise and the pain in both of his legs. His good leg has been taking more of his weight, and now aches as well. Perfect.

“You’re the color of whey, and you hate sitting on that couch,” Robin says tartly. “I don’t think ‘fine’ is the word for you right now.”

Cormoran waves a hand at her, as though to brush away her accusations. 

“Just stepped in a pothole, no need to call the morgue just yet,” he says, trying for levity. 

“I’m making you tea, and you’re going to stay seated for at least ten minutes,” Robin says, allowing herself to be pushed away for the moment. 

He closes his eyes, leaning back on the couch. Cormoran cannot help the smile that ghosts across his lips. “You’re a bossy one, Robin Venetia,” he says, as he only ever does when he’s feeling fond of her. 

Robin looks at him from the kitchenette, arms crossed. She too cannot help the tenderness in her gaze as she looks him over, the tension in his face not lost to her sharp eyes. “And you’re a mess, Cormoran Blue,” she replies. 

“I’m not a mess,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Robin says, exasperated.

“I’m fine,” he says, as though it will become true simply by repetition. 

Robin gives him a gimlet stare. “Don’t act as though I can’t see that you’re in pain.” Beside her, the kettle has already begun to steam; the mostly-full cup on her desk informs Cormoran how the water heated so quickly. 

“It’s nothing that a cup of tea and a good night’s rest won’t be able to cure,” Cormoran says, focusing on regulating his breathing. “I swear, Robin.”

She has her back to him as she brews his tea, so she cannot see how he crosses his fingers briefly as he speaks. 

“I’m going to take you at your word, Cormoran,” Robin says as she dips the teabag into the water. “Don’t make me regret doing so.”

He dredges up a smile for her. “I won’t, love,” he says. 

Robin comes over to him, mug in hand. “Promise?” she asks, bending down so their faces are at the same level.

“Of course,” Cormoran says, leaning forward to seal it with a soft kiss. “Thank you for the tea.”

Robin brushes at his curls where they have stuck to his sweaty forehead, frowning a little. “You’re welcome. Drink the whole thing before you get up, alright?”

“I will,” he says. 

He watches the sway of her hips as she goes back to her desk. She meets his eyes as she sits back down— he’s caught, but doesn’t apologize, only takes a sip of his scalding tea, unblinking. 

Robin sighs. “You know I only worry because I care about you, right? I’m not trying to control you, Cormoran. You’re a grown man. But sometimes I worry you don’t know your own limits— or that you just ignore them. And that worries me.”

Cormoran acknowledges this with a nod, unable to dismiss the charges as his leg throbs in time with his heartbeat. 

“I know, love,” he says. “But you don’t have to worry about me.”

“You were limping rather heavily when you came through that door,” Robin points out, not without gentleness. “And I know you’ve been ignoring those phone messages about scheduling a checkup with your specialist.”

“I’ll ice it,” he says, “and go to bed early, and maybe I’ll even eat some vegetables, how does that sound?”

Robin laughs, as he wanted her to. “Fine, fine. I’ll be bought off for now. And make it a real vegetable, if you please. Potatoes don’t count, they’re a starch.”

“You’ve seen through my clever plot,” he sighs. “Fine, I’ll order up a beef and broccoli. Is that enough to satisfy you, you beautiful and tenacious creature, or must I do more to please you?”

Robin blinks at him from behind her computer monitor; he knows she is now thinking about something entirely separate from their previous discussion by the way her lips curl, a familiar warm look.

“It’ll do for now,” she says. “We can revisit the topic when you can walk normally again.”

Something twists, ugly in Cormoran’s stomach; _does she only want me when I’m whole?_ it asks. _When she can forget that I am an intrinsically damaged man?_

He takes a sip of his tea to drown out the voice. The tea is precisely the right shade of creosote, and it comforts him.


	2. the rising

Cormoran does everything right, as far as he is aware; he did indeed ice his stump, which was criss-crossed with bruising from the straps of his prosthesis. It’s chafed from the gel pad’s displacement, and he finally digs up the cream he’s supposed to be applying every night to use for once to help with that. He eats a whole container of beef and broccoli, accompanied by a pint of Doom Bar and ignoring the rice, and passes out in bed before 11 pm. 

This is why it’s so insulting to him when he awakens to worse pain than he went to sleep with. Without the generic painkillers and beer of the night before, the edges of it are no longer dulled, and without Robin’s clear eyes to try to fool, he is free to let out the prolonged groan that trying to get out of bed causes. 

The mere thought of putting his prosthesis _back on_ is enough to make him wince, the idea of going about his day as though he is a whole man making him want to crawl back under his covers, or perhaps some sort of large stone, so he might die in peace. 

But the day before, he had looked Robin in the eye and sworn that he didn’t need to go see a doctor, because he was fine, and ice and a good night’s rest would cure him. And he cannot bear the thought of being made a liar, not to Robin, and so he hauls himself upright, and applies the lotion and the powder and aligns the gel pad just so. The straps of the prosthesis bite into his bruises, but he won’t be stopped. 

He takes another ibuprofen and buttons his shirt with distracted fingers. His stomach is grumbling, but he cannot deal with making food, because the hunger is warring with a low level of nausea, which he has elected to ignore. Below him, he can hear Robin coming into the office; she must have caught the earlier Tube today.

_I’m fine,_ he thinks, attempting to use his powers of persuasion on his own recalcitrant body. _Fine, fine, I’m fine, dammit, I’m fine._

His grip on the railing is white-knuckle tight as he descends the stairs. Each step sends shooting pain into the bruises, but he will be stopped by something so paltry as pain, not when he promised Robin— promised her— 

The door is ahead of him, and he opens it with fake confidence, ready to convince Robin that he really is _fine, fine, fine…_

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully. “Feeling better? I’ve made coffee.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Cormoran says, leaning heavily on the doorknob and just watching Robin as she moves, sorting through the morning’s mail. 

“Seduced by caffeine, the Cormoran Strike Story,” Robin says, turning to look at him finally, where he is still in the doorway, just in time to see him try to take a step and stagger to one knee. He lands on his good knee, which is the only sign that god might yet be real and merciful. “Cormoran!”

He’s breathing heavily, listing sideways and trying not to look as totally destroyed as he is feeling. He has failed, and he is weak, and Robin will see him thus, Robin who he wants to never let down, not even once, never again.

And she is at his side, touching his forehead with her slim cool hand, worry running clear in every line of her body. Cormoran turns his face up into her touch, eyes closed against the sight of her disappointment.

“‘m sorry, Robin,” he mutters. “I promised I’d be okay, but I don’t think I did a very good job.”

“Oh, Cormoran,” she says, reassured that he doesn’t have a fever at least. Her voice is shaking. “You don’t have to be sorry, you’re injured, you haven’t done anything _wrong._”

She presses her forehead to his, cupping her hand against his cheek, and Cormoran’s jaw works as he tries to reply to this tenderness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, for lack of anything else, anything better to say. 

“Oh, love,” she says, and moves away only far enough to press a kiss to his forehead. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to work in this state. You ought to just go back upstairs and go to bed.”

He winces, still trapped on the floor by his inability to convince his legs to obey him and bear his weight. 

“I’m not sure I can do that,” he says, hedging.

“Of course you can,” Robin says, “I’ll just call Barclay to cover your shift out in the field and you can use your laptop in bed while you ice and elevate, and—”

He grits his teeth, tries to stand, and manages to lurch upwards at last. The doorknob, as his point of leverage, makes a noise of protest at this misuse. 

At last afforded the dignity of his own two feet— or as close as he’ll ever have again— Cormoran manages to say aloud, to his own shame, “I mean I’m not sure I can get back upstairs. Down was hard enough.”

Robin looks horrified, and it stabs at him that she should be so shaken by his infirmity until—

“I’m sorry, I was thoughtless,” she says at once, reaching out to touch his arm. “Of course the stairs— I’m sorry, love. Can you get to the couch, at least?”

Cormoran would rather die than say no to this; it is five feet, perhaps less, and he will not be held hostage by his own weakness, so he does not hesitate to push himself over to the horrid farting thing. He manages to get on it without losing any more of his dignity than he has already sacrificed this morning; he is weak, and a liar, and he hates every moment of it. 

Robin, sweet and loving but practical Robin, has not to this point seen him so totally felled by his own body, not since they had become a couple. Now, he thinks, she will see what she has signed up for, and will make the smart choice, the only rational choice, and seek a man who is younger, handsomer, less broken.

It is only a matter of time, as he has always known. It only hurts more because he had thought, had hoped, that he would have more time. He watches her as she flits about, doing something with the phone. 

She is beautiful and young and he— _loves her_, he thinks, the pain a sharp ache. He loves her. 

They have never said the words. They have said “I care about you,” and “I worry for you,” and “you’re wonderful” and “I cannot believe I am so lucky to have you in my life.” But never “I love you.” Not so bold and bare as that. 

She is pouring him a cup of the coffee she made for him, and he is in pain, and it is Tuesday morning, and he loves her. Cormoran catalogs these facts as Robin brings him a steaming mug, brow furrowed. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” she says, handing off the mug. Cormoran takes it, as much to have something to hold as for the comfort and caffeine within. 

“I’m going to call Barclay, he’s been asking for more shifts anyway, he’ll be pleased to take on your work for the next few days.”

Cormoran opens his mouth to object, but Robin raises a quelling hand.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to be back in the pink of health in 24 hours, love, I’m not a fool. You’re going to need more rest and ice, and probably a checkup from your specialist to make sure your prosthesis isn’t damaged, and these things do take time.”

He frowns but doesn’t try to refute her words. He takes a sip of his coffee for something to do. 

“I’m going to help you upstairs, and then I’m going to stay with you today and make sure you actually do make the appointment with the specialist, because I don’t trust you to not fob it off as you’ve been doing.” The look she gives him is soft but firm; she knows him too well, he thinks. 

She is not afraid to call him out on his bad habits, either, which he both hates and appreciates. 

“Fine,” he says, knowing he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. “Then what?”

“You’re going to nap, because I’m not kidding, Cormoran, you look like something with a lot of teeth chewed you up and spit you out.”

“Evocative,” he says dryly, concealing his mouth with the coffee mug. “Thanks for that.”

Robin is leaning against her desk, looking at him with that smile that says she thinks he is a sweet and also a fool. 

“More rest can hardly hurt you,” she says. “And I am going to make sure you eat something that checks off at least three different food groups, and _no_ you cannot count beer as a grain.”

He sighs, caught out once more. “You know me _too_ well,” he complains. 

“Of course I do,” Robin says, fondly exasperated. “I’m your partner.”

He doesn’t know if she means business partner, or romantic partner— _perhaps she means to start robbing banks together,_ he thinks.

“Anyway, just let me finish getting things here taken care of and we’ll get you back upstairs.”

Robin moves forward to press another soft kiss to his brow, stroking one hand over his riot of curls before going back around to her computer to type away like a speed demon. Cormoran watches her helplessly, enjoying the way she focuses on each thing so intently, even as he is unable to move from the couch.

He shifts a bit, wincing at the noise, and thinks that their next windfall ought to go to replacing the damned thing. Again.


	3. the prostration

The journey of getting Cormoran into bed is one that he would prefer no human outside of the two involved ever be aware of; it involves Robin acting as a human crutch, as she has done before, but more puffing and swearing from Cormoran than usual, and he is sweating heavily when they finally summit the short flight of stairs up to his flat. 

He fumbles the keys into the lock as Robin holds him steady, seemingly unaffected by the blatant display of physical weakness that he has just put on.

“That was a lovely display of creativity,” she says as he gets the door open at last. “Truly, the world lost a poet when you decided to become a PI.”

“There’s no need to be like that,” Cormoran mumbles as she presses up against his weight. 

“No, I mean it,” Robin says as they maneuver him around towards the bed. “I rather liked ‘motherfucking holy lord of cocksuckers,’ it’s so descriptive.”

She gives him a grin, and he loves her, loves her for trying to make this moment about anything other than the fact he is about to collapse after nothing more than some stairs. 

“That’s one of my better ones,” he replies, and squeezes the arm that is slung around Robin’s shoulders. “You’re amazing, you are.”

Robin leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I know,” she says, as they attempt to get him atop the bed with as much care as possible. Halfway through, Cormoran gives up and simply allows himself to drop down onto the mattress, accepting the pain as the trade-off for being, at last, blessedly horizontal once more.

Robin blinks down at him, bemused. “Would you like help taking off your prosthesis?” she asks, not pushing, just offering. He knows that she has seen it before, many times, has helped him get it off when he’s had one too many, has handed it to him in the morning. But somehow it’s different right now, when he is weak; he feels like an animal, licking his wounds, trying to hide away so he can heal or die in peace. He doesn’t want to be seen, and he doesn’t want her to see. 

“I can get it,” he says, waving her off. “Please just let me die in peace.”

She snorts a laugh and steps away. “I’m going to go get things in order in the office,” she says. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. You have that long to get yourself comfortable, or I’ll make you be comfortable by force, see if I don’t.”

He cannot help but smile at Robin’s tone; he knows that she’ll give it her best shot if he doesn’t follow her directives. He nods, which pacifies her enough to get her back out the door.

Once he hears the office door open and close again, Cormoran begins the process of taking back off the shirt he put on such a short time ago, exchanging it for a tee-shirt, and taking a pair of comfortable sweatpants from the drawer. If he’s going to be forced into comfort, he thinks, he might as well go all the way. 

Removing the prosthesis is like setting a bone: much worse until it’s done, then much better. The flesh of his stump is worse when he sees it in the brightening daylight, the bruises mottled and swollen. There’s soreness in other spots too, which warn him that he’s probably sporting more bruises across his body. He doesn’t have a full-length mirror, so he can’t know for sure, and he’s not checking, but he can feel them all the same. 

Sitting on his bed in just his tee-shirt and pants, Cormoran stares at the place where his leg ends and gives himself a minute to wallow. It’s ugly and painful and a permanent reminder of one of the very worst moments of his life.

Cruelty or mercy? He cannot say. 

He can hear Robin’s voice on the phone, and turns his head as though it will make the sound clearer.

“Yes, he’s going to be unavailable for the rest of the week, so I thought I ought to call and see if you’re still open to pick up more shifts.” She laughs, cheerful and sweet. “Of course, I haven’t forgotten how many mouths you have to feed! How’s the little one, then?”

Cormoran lets her voice wash over him, eavesdropping shamelessly. It’s not a crime, to listen; it’s hardly trade secrets, and besides, it’s his business. But it’s Robin’s voice he’s after, the way he can hear her smile as she exclaims over whatever thing the Barclay child has done now. 

He loves her; she is eminently lovable. Of _course_ he loves her. 

At the sound of his name, Cormoran starts, and remembers that he is supposed to be getting re-dressed. He tosses his sweatpants out, starts tugging them gingerly on. He is careful to avoid jostling his bruises, but the slow pace is not easier. 

Downstairs, Robin is still chatting on the phone, so she must have just mentioned him in passing. Cormoran listens to her as a way to not think about his leg, or his aches, or the loss of income that will result from paying Barclay to do the work that he should be doing. Robin’s voice is brisk as she dictates the addresses where Cormoran should be going today, tomorrow. 

He gets himself dressed and gives up on the day entirely, the inside of his head something like a cross between television static and a stormcloud. Huffing, he hauls himself the bed with his arms, and crawls back under the covers, just as he’d imagined doing earlier. 

“Hah,” he says aloud, a dry sort of coughing laugh. He feels as though he's addressing the universe. “Maybe I _will_ just curl up and die.”

“I heard that, and you won't!” Robin calls up the stairs. “I’m nearly done down here, is there anything you’d like me to bring up for you?”

“My laptop!” he calls back. Perhaps he’ll be able to distract himself by watching… something. What is it that people are always watching on their screens? He mostly just watches the footy, or whatever plays during the late nights. 

He has some vague idea of doing something productive, but with his head the way it is, there’s no chance of doing anything that will end up being actually useful. He hates this, this weakness, this uselessness.

Cormoran reaches out for the neglected extra pillow, pulling it over his face. He doesn’t want to see or be seen. His stump throbs, a pounding like drums, echoing in his ears. He’s tired, and this is— _a headache,_ he thinks, in a moment of clarity. He’s got a terrible headache. 

“Here we are, then,” Robin says. Her steps come up the stairs, the clicking of her heeled boots sharp. “I have your laptop, and some— oh, dear.”

Her steps stop, and Cormoran wonders what she sees. _A pathetic lump_ his ugly little voice says. _A grown man who can’t handle his own shit._

He listens from beneath the pillow as Robin moves about his space; she has been here before, many times. She is familiar with his flat, because it is where they go, after a long day in the office downstairs, to be together in a different way than they are the rest of the time. She cooks, sometimes, and they watch movies and kiss like teenagers, and sometimes she sleeps in this bed beside him, and allows him to love her in every way he can imagine, as she ought to be loved. 

This is a space that has become, somehow, _theirs,_ and Cormoran is sharply aware of it as Robin does things he cannot see; there is thumping, as though she’s set something down, and the scraping of one of his sad little kitchen chairs. The faucet runs. She’s humming tunelessly, and he loves her, he loves her so much in this moment when she is nothing but a series of overheard noises and her name on his tongue. 

Her steps, soft now, come over next to the bed. She must have taken off her boots. 

“Will you come out?” she asks. 

“I thought I’d made my intentions clear,” he says, not moving the pillow. “I’d like to be left alone to die here in peace, thank you.”

“I understand,” Robin says, “but I do not accept your resignation, Cormoran Blue, so just come out from under there and see what I have for you.”

He sighs and allows himself to be enticed into lifting the pillow enough to peek out from. The light, bright now, hurts his eyes.

“I brought you some of the pills you never take,” Robin says, “and a glass of water, so just go right ahead and take two of those, and then I’ll show you the rest of what I have.”

Cormoran scowls at her. “How’d you even know about these?” he asks, as he grudgingly shoves the pillow away and gets up on one elbow— the less sore one. “I’ve never mentioned them, I don’t think.”

Robin deposits two of his pain pills in his hand with a flourish. “I went through your cabinet,” she says without shame. “I needed ibuprofen that night I had my period, and I saw them. The level’s never dropped, not as long as I’ve been coming around.”

Cormoran is unable to respond due to the pills in his mouth; he takes the glass of water to swallow them down, still scowling. Robin just looks at him, levelly. 

“Cons of dating an investigator,” she says as he swishes the water around, gulping the glass empty. “Not always very fun, is it, but it is sometimes useful.”

“Point taken,” he says once his mouth is clear. He knows he’s done the same sort of thing to her on many occasions. It’s not a comfortable thing, to have the shoe on the other foot, as it may be. But she has a point: it is useful.

“Now what?” he asks, an edge of plaintiveness to his voice that he isn’t able to eradicate in time. He can see from Robin’s half-smile as she takes back the glass that she’s heard it too.

“Now,” she says, “you are going to lay back down, and try to get some rest.”

Cormoran sighs, flopping back down onto his pillow. It’s to be a convalescence, then. “You said you had something else for me?”

“I do. Be patient for me for a moment, could you? I know you can be patient, when you choose to be.”

They’ve spent nights together in pubs and the back of vehicles, waiting for some mark or another to come out of a club or a flat or an office. He knows that is what she means, but he cannot help but think about the nights he has lain above or below or beside her in this bed, gently coaxing her to pieces. 

When Cormoran looks over at Robin, he is surprised to see her undressing; has she read his mind? He’s hardly in a fit state, although he could never say no to her— 

But she is re-dressing now, into his clothing, and there is some primal part of him that likes it, the way she swims in his shirt, her collarbone peeking out from the neckline. She slips into a pair of his boxers over her own panties, and looks eminently comfortable. 

“Scoot over, then,” she says, gentle, and he does, making room for her beside him. She climbs in, sitting with her back against the wall, pulling the spare pillow up behind her as a backrest. He leans his head over towards her, pressing his face against the side of her thigh. She hasn’t shaved this part of her leg in a while, and the downy hair there is soft against his cheek.

Robin slides a hand into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

“All of my work today is office-based anyway,” she says, as Cormoran turns to sling an arm across her lap. “I figured I might as well do it in comfort while keeping you company.”

“You’re wonderful,” Cormoran mumbles into the skin of her thigh. “Never leave.”

Robin laughs, her hand unceasing in its ministrations against his scalp. Somehow, it’s soothing to his headache, instead of aggravating it. 

“I wan’t planning on it,” she says. “You just stay there and let your medicine do its job, and get some rest. I’ll just be working right here if you need anything.”

Eyes closed, Cormoran can feel the flexing of her muscles as she leans over his arm to grab her laptop and phone from the side of the bed. She sets it up on her lap, one leg shifting out to create a little triangle of leg for her to rest the computer on. He adjusts his arm so it’s not in the way and presses a kiss to her skin.

She pets him. “After you nap, I _am_ going to make you call the specialist,” she says. “But I think what you really need right now is rest.”

“And you,” he mumbles, the pills he’s taken starting to do their good work quickly on his empty stomach. He feels foggy, slowly being dragged down into unconsciousness. 

“I’ll be right here,” Robin says, and it sounds like a promise. “Go to sleep, Cormoran Blue.”

And before he can manage to tell her that he will, he does.


	4. the absolution

Waking up is like climbing his way out of a cave filled with cottonballs; Cormoran feels as though he’s fighting his way back to consciousness. 

The first thing he is aware of, once he is able to be aware of anything, is that he is alone in his bed.

So Robin left. He closes his eyes tightly. It must have been a dream. Sometimes he does that, conjures up a phantom Robin to lie beside him at night; she is never as good as the real thing, but it is always better than sleeping alone. As he currently is. 

The sound of a tap running has him jerking his eyes back open, though, and he looks up to see Robin coming out of his washroom, rubbing her hands against her hips. 

“You’re still here,” he says, unable to stop his mouth from moving. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” Robin asks, and his face must give something away, because she comes right over to him, touching his face with still-damp palms. “Oh, you did, didn’t you. Love, I said I wouldn’t leave you, and I meant it.”

And he knows, he _knows_ that Robin means she wouldn’t leave him right now, like this, but he wants to believe that she means not ever. 

“I know,” he says, and his mouth is dry and voice is caught between his teeth. “I just woke up, and you were gone.”

“I’m still here,” she says, brushing his hair from his face with cool fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“As though something with a lot of teeth chewed me up and spit me back out,” he says, to make her smile. And she does, and he loves her, just like this. 

“Would you like something to eat?”

Cormoran winces at the way his stomach twists. “I probably should,” he says, “but I’m not sure I can.”

“Well, let me know if that changes,” Robin replies, nudging him over so she can slide back into her place beside him. “I saw eggs and rice in the fridge, I can do you fried rice. You’ve always got plenty of soy sauce packets around here. Or I could grill you a cheese, if you have any cheese left.”

As soon as he is able, Cormoran wraps his arm back across Robin’s lap, pulling himself snug against her hip. 

“You’re a wonder,” he says to her, tired and aching and full of love. 

She brushes a hand over his clammy forehead gently. “And you’re a mess.” 

She says it with such tenderness that Cormoran can’t bring himself to contradict her; he knows that she’s right, anyway. 

“I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard,” he complains, resting his face into Robin’s hand. “I just fell, it’s not as though I’m ill.”

Robin clucks. “I think you’ve been overworking yourself again, and your fall was just the final straw,” she says. “Your body had enough and decided to go on holiday, as it were.”

Cormoran hacks a laugh. “Some holiday.”

“It’s important to rest,” Robin says. She is settled back in beside him, and Cormoran inspects the thought that he has, which is that he has all the things he cares about most in this bed. 

“If I’m going to go on holiday, I’d like to do it properly,” he says aloud. “Maybe on a beach somewhere, with you in a bikini. That sounds rather good.”

Robin laughs and smacks him softly on the arm. “You’re irrepressible, you. There’s no way you have the energy to be daydreaming about me in a bikini right now. And how do you know I don’t wear a racing one-piece?”

Cormoran, looking up at Robin, shakes his head. “I will never have so little energy that I can’t manage to imagine you in a bikini, Robin. Never.”

She grins down at him. “Like I said. Irrepressible.”

“That’s me,” he agrees, before leaning in to press a kiss to her thigh. She is still wearing his boxer shorts, which have rucked up far enough for him to get at her skin. 

Robin’s skin is soft and smells of her body-wash and his detergent from his sheets, which is a perfect combination, as far as Cormoran’s concerned. He presses another kiss beside the first, fingers absent-mindedly stroking at the skin of her other leg where he’s holding her. 

“Cormoran,” Robin says on a sigh. “You really ought to have something to eat, you know.”

He’s been in bed all day, and the thought of eating makes him faintly queasy; the thought of Robin in a bikini on a sunny beach, on the other hand, has sent his mind hurtling along much more pleasant pathways.

“I can think of something appetizing,” he says, aiming for nonchalance as his fingers climb up and under the edge of his boxers over Robin’s thighs. 

She looks startled but doesn’t shoot him down immediately. “There’s no way you’re in a fit state—” she starts, but Cormoran shakes his head.

“I’m hardly fit for anything else, at the moment,” he says, trying not to let his bitterness at this truth show through. “And besides, I’d like to thank you for everything today.”

“Love, you don’t need to—”

“I know,” he says, kissing her leg once more. “But I want to. You’ve been taking care of me all day. Let me take care of you.”

She bites her lip in thought, and Cormoran knows he has her. 

“Come here, love,” he says. “Let me. Please.”

And Robin looks at him with her luminous eyes and nods, and Cormoran gives thanks in his head to whatever uncaring force in the universe sent him this woman. 

He releases Robin’s legs so she can shimmy his boxers down her legs, and her panties follow quickly, leaving her bare from the waist down. He reaches over to tug at her, and Robin knows how he likes her; she swings a leg over his neck, kneeling above him where he lays on his pillow. 

Cormoran kisses her inner thigh, working his way up her leg, as Robin sighs above him. He wants to wind her up slow, wants to draw this out; he might not be a whole man, but he is whole enough for this, for making Robin reach down to tangle her hands into his hair, for making her say his name just the way she is doing now. 

He licks at her outer lips, making a languorous exploration of her sweet cunt; his arms wrap up and over her legs, pulling her closer and giving him access to touch her as well, which he does, opening her up to him.

She’s not as wet as he’d like, but he did initiate a bit suddenly, so he knows it’s not about anything but the fact that he’s got some work to do; but who could call this work, he thinks as he teases her folds with just the tip of his tongue, how could anyone think of this as anything but play, but the most generous gift a hard world could provide?

Cormoran’s gentle and thorough as he works Robin up, soft licks, careful nudges of his fingers. He knows it’s working when his tongue slides through a new slickness, the salt and tang of it like victory in his mouth. 

“Please,” Robin says above him, tugging at his hair with new force. “Cormoran, love, please—”

“Yeah,” he says against her, his cock throbbing and forgotten. “Like that, honey? You like it like that?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice gone rich with pleasure, with desire. “You know I do—”

He pulls her down more fully onto his face, burying his mouth into the wet perfection of her cunt, nose against her clit. His tongue probes and dips into her, and he can taste her approval, can feel it in the way she squirms and twists. He gets to his good work with passion, with determination to show Robin how he feels even if he cannot say it aloud. 

She is rocking against him, and Cormoran stops only long enough to breathe before going back in, his fingers providing the counterbalance to the way his mouth sucks and licks, messy and wet and delicious against Robin’s glorious cunt. 

“Yes,” Robin is panting, “yes, yes— like that, more, please—”

And Cormoran is thinking, somewhere beneath all the parts of him that are reveling in Robin’s desperate pleasure, _who else could give her this, so good, so quickly— if you can do nothing else with your life, Strike, you can do this, and do it well— _

“More?” he asks, pulling away one of his arms from her leg to bring it beneath her.

“Please,” Robin says, and Cormoran is happy to oblige, happy to slip his hand up so he can slide two fingers into her slick cunt, happy to press his mouth to her clit as he fucks up into her with his fingers. 

“Oh _fuck_,” Robin says above him, and this could be the only thing he does for the rest of his life and Cormoran would die happy.

His world is just this: the way Robin feels around his fingers, hot and wet; the way she looks, shiny and pink and sweet; the way her hips tremble and shake as he works her up and up and up— 

“I want you,” she says, “please, Cormoran, I want you—”

“You have me,” he says, “come on, honey, let me see you—”

And he gives Robin a third finger, not quite what she meant but enough for her to fall forward against the wall, keening, enough for her to clench around his fingers and cry out his name.

Cormoran loves to watch Robin fall apart. The way she shudders and gasps, the way she flushes and trembles; it’s perfect. Unrehearsed, unstudied, never so much that he doubts that he has managed to give her that gift. She’s genuine, his Robin.

He slips his fingers out of her as her breathing starts to calm, and she twists away from him, moving off of his face to lay back in her place, sitting up against the wall. 

“Good?” he asks, reaching up to wipe at his mouth. 

“Sod off,” she replies, smiling. “You know it was.”

“Just checking,” he says, heaving a satisfied breath. 

“You know, Cormoran,” Robin says a few heartbeats later. “That’s not the only thing you do that I like.”

“If you meant that,” he says, gesturing at the tent he’s got in his boxers, “I don’t know that we could manage it with my leg, but I’m willing to try if you—”

“That’s not what I mean, love, and you know it,” she chides him softly. 

Cormoran closes his eyes against this conversation, so he feels more than sees Robin sliding down to curl herself around him, head on his shoulder, leg thrown over his. She’s still wearing his shirt, and it bunches up between them. Robin takes a moment to tug it smooth.

“I’m not with you just because you give me orgasms,” she says. Her arm is across him, and Cormoran likes the way her weight feels against him, around him. 

“I know,” he replies, but even he can hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

“I like you, Cormoran Blue,” Robin says in her Northern accent. “I like spending time with you. I like the way you look at the world, even if you’re too cynical sometimes. I like the way you look at me.”

Cormoran lifts a hand to lay it against Robin’s leg where it is flung over his. “What do you mean?” he asks, wanting despite himself to hear more, to know what Robin likes him for. 

“You look at me like— like an equal,” she says. “Like you respect my opinion. You look at me like you—”

She pauses, and there is an ocean in it. 

“Like you care about me,” she says. “Like you care about what I think and how I feel and what I have to say. And yes, you look at me like I’m beautiful, which is nice too. But that’s not what I like best about you.”

These words soak into Cormoran like rain into drought-parched earth. 

“It’s not?” he all but whispers. He’s still turned on, and he can feel the heat of Robin’s cunt against his leg, but this isn’t sexual now. 

“No,” Robin says, her face pressed into his shoulder. “I like you— just for you. For who are you, and for who you let me be. For who I am when I’m with you. You make me feel—”

She breaks off, turns her face into his neck. Cormoran brings his free hand up to cup her neck, his thumb stroking across her pulsepoint. He can feel the way her heart is still racing, and it might be from the orgasm he has given her but he hopes— he hopes it’s not. 

“I didn’t know you could be this way with another person,” Robin mumbles into his neck. “I didn’t know I could be like this and still be—”

“Be what, love?” he asks, when Robin seems as though she might not continue. Because he needs to know what she is trying to say, because these are words he has not been able to say himself, but which he has felt nevertheless. 

“I didn’t know I could be myself, and still have someone— like me,” she says, finally. “Want to be with me. Because I always felt like it was a give and take before, and the take was— part of myself. But with you, it’s not like that.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “I like you, just as you are, Robin Venetia, and all the ways you’re going to be, too, I think.”

“Fuck,” Robin says, and he’s confused, until she lifts her head to look at him, and he can see— “You’ve gone and made me cry, you lummox.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, smiling incredulously, because he’s never made anyone cry tears of happiness before, and it’s something good, something new, that drives all the pain and ache right out of his body. “Don’t cry, beautiful girl. Now I’ve gone and ruined the mood, haven’t I.”

“No,” Robin says, wiping her eyes, “you haven’t, it was a lovely thing to say. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about us as though—”

She breaks off again, then soldiers forward with the sentence, not looking him the eye but off to the side.

“As though we’re going to last. Like we have a future together.”

“Of course we do,” Cormoran says, surprised. “You think I’m going to let you go? You, Robin Venetia, who’s been fixing my life since the day I nearly knocked you down the stairs?”

“It hasn’t all been fixing,” she says, softly, and their past whispers between them, arguments and old hurts like ghosts. 

“No,” he acknowledges. “But it’s been more fixing than hurting, and it’s been good, Robin, all of it, as far as I’m concerned, everything that led me to right here with you in my bed.”

“Even falling into that pothole?” Robin asks, and Cormoran’s leg sends a wave of ache up to him at the reminder. It hurts, but he doesn’t care, right at this moment.

“Fuck it, yeah,” he says. “That too. Every goddamn thing, Robin, the pothole included.”

She leans forward to kiss him, and he wonders if she can still taste herself on his lips as her mouth opens against his. 

“You’re worth it,” he mumbles into her mouth. Robin pulls back, something soft and bright in her eyes as she looks at him. 

“So are you,” she says. “Don’t think for a second I’m here for any reason but that I— that I want to be, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees, wondering what she had been about to say. It couldn’t be, but he hopes, anyway. 

Just at that second, his stomach makes a sort of ungodly grumbling noise that manages to throw in a gurgling and perhaps some groaning. It stops them both short, and sends Robin into a fit of giggles. 

“I think I might ought to feed you now,” she says. “Fried rice, or grilled cheese?”

“I don’t know that I have any bread,” Cormoran admits. 

Robin shakes her head. “I’m doing your shopping tomorrow, and you can’t stop me,” she says as she turns away to find her panties. “I’m buying you some veg, and you’re going to eat it, so help me god.”

Cormoran watches her wriggle back into her panties with soft eyes. “If you’re going to force me to eat greens,” he asks as she leaves the bed, “could I get some bacon as well?”

“Could be,” Robin says, going into his kitchen. “What if I did up the bacon then put it on the grilled cheese? Oh, could do the cheese in the bacon fat, as well.”

His stomach makes another noise, slightly less urgent than the first, and Robin laughs. “I think that was agreement.”

Cormoran’s attention is, if he had to admit it, stuck somewhere around her thighs and perfect, lovely arse. 

“I think I would agree with anything you say when you’re dressed like that and making me food,” Cormoran says. 

“You’re a simple man, Cormoran Blue,” Robin says, looking back at him over her shoulder, smiling. 

“I’m very complex, I’ll have you know,” he says. “I think I’m just simple where you’re concerned.”

Robin shakes her head. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

“Anything to do with you is good.”

“Oh,” Robin says, turning from the fridge to look at him. “Isn’t that a pretty thing to say.”

“You’re the pretty one,” he says. 

“Stop that, now you’re just playing,” Robin says, turning to bring out the rice. 

“I’m not,” Cormoran says, and he doesn’t know why it’s easier to say this when Robin is across his flat than when she’s laying against him. “I mean it, Robin. I think— I think you’re maybe the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.” 

He looks back at her, and there it is again, that bright soft look in her eyes. 

“I think we’re both lucky,” she says. “I know I am.”

Cormoran opens his mouth to protest— he has brought calamity into her life, chaos, the collapse of her first marriage— 

On the other hand— 

He collapses back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow once more. 

The fact that he has just thought the phrase “her first marriage” as though she will have another is not lost on him. 

He can hear Robin cracking eggs into a bowl, one after another. 

“Yeah,” he says aloud. “We’re both lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to go so long before posting this final bit, but I got a bit blocked on it and then Real Life happened, you know how things can be.
> 
> I hope you aren't too disappointed with this ending; I know we all wanted Cormoran to profess his love, but he's not quite there yet. Robin knows, though; she's just giving him the time and space he needs. (It's possible she needs some time and space of her own, as a matter of fact.) But they're good, these two. They understand each other in the ways that matter.
> 
> Thanks for the lovely comments; I'm going to go back and respond to those I haven't yet, but know I appreciate every one of them. 
> 
> And an extra-special thanks to LindMea, whose birthday prompted this work, and who is a lovely commenter and person in general. 
> 
> Until next time, everyone.


End file.
